Only on one important subject did they differ, and that was submerged most of the time. This was the question of striving for a Hohenzollern restoration, the Kaiser’s triumphant return to Germany as its king once more. It was quite obvious that Germany needed royal leadership to counter-balance this regime of corporals and tobacconists. Not only to counter-balance, but to complement and complete. They were not doing badly, these Nazis, and one could have much sympathy with them; in many ways they were right, and certainly they were doing well with this war. But they needed guidance, wisdom and experience, someone who could ensure the allegiance of the armed forces and the aristocracy. Naturally, there was only one who could do that.
The problem was Willie, not because he was against returning to his rightful throne – on the contrary, it was the very thing that, deep down, he most longed for. Of that she was sure. However, he could not acknowledge it fully, it was too delicate, rejection would be too wounding, worse than the original exile and more final. Therefore, his Princess must take soundings for him and prepare the way. Not for herself, of course. It made no difference to her whether she became Empress of Germany – though her sisters, yes, imagine what they would say – but she would do it for his sake. It would mean so much to him. So, it was important to be nice to these Nazis, especially now that they were here in Holland and, as always, had it in their power to continue or refuse Willie’s financial allowance. Again, if one could not keep one’s face, one could at least keep one’s head and perhaps do the state, and dear Willie, some service.
The Princess left her room. The door to Dona’s sanctuary was shut, as always, but Schulz, Willie’s valet, was creeping along the corridor in his usual funereal manner, his face irritatingly expressionless, as if he were aware of no one or nothing. In fact, he noticed everything and was treasured by Willie for his ‘unfathomable discretion’.
‘Is His Majesty in the late Empress’s room?’ she asked.
Schulz looked absurdly surprised, as if the wall had addressed him. ‘No, your Highness.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Yes, your Highness.’
‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me.’
‘He is in the rose garden, your Highness.’
She looked out from a window and saw him, on a bench, bareheaded, his stick between his knees. He had a better head of hair than many men half his age, albeit that it was silver now, like his beard. The three dachshunds, ridiculous creatures, were playing nearby. The roses were like a red sea around him. For a moment it reminded her of a sea of poppies, the sort of thing the English had made such a fuss about since the last war. Willie was wearing his field grey uniform, the one he had worn at their wedding. That was a good sign; it showed he meant to impress by being businesslike, not just showy. He often wore uniforms in the evenings, normally more elaborate than this. He had a ridiculous number – over three hundred German alone, plus Russian, Austrian, Portuguese, Swedish, Danish and English. She had once remarked to him that if they became poor he could sell his uniforms to the various armies and navies to help them all keep the war going.
Field grey was also a good choice because it showed solidarity with the Wehrmacht and with the Nazi attempts to create a new, more egalitarian, social order. She hoped he would not wear his medals, but if he did – well, probably no one nowadays remembered that he had never won or earned any of them. It was doubtful that he any longer acknowledged that even to himself. Anyway, medals might impress the young Untersturmführer. Willie must – would – be king again. She went down to the rose garden to be with him.
Krebbs was anxious before and during dinner, though not because of his table manners. He had learned those on becoming an officer and, although this table was more a minefield than most – more dishes and implements and the danger of arcane customs he had never heard of – he felt protected by his status. Not only because of his commissioned rank, but because his SS insignia guaranteed immediate recognition and respect wherever he went. It did not guarantee liking, but – like him or loathe him – no one could ignore a representative of the SS.
Whether or not he was liked nevertheless did make a difference to Martin Krebbs and he generally tried to render himself likeable. His first cause of anxiety had been whether he would get to the dinner at all. He had arrived at the barracks with Major van Houten that afternoon to find battalion headquarters in confusion. A few hours, he was learning, could be a long time in war. He had left an organised, efficient unit that morning, one that was grateful after weeks in the field to have the luxury of proper barracks and an attractive part of Holland to occupy. Arrangements were being made to accommodate Dutch Army prisoners, pending High Command decisions as to what should happen to them. Krebbs and his new friend, Stefan – a Wehrmacht Oberleutnant who had displayed none of the stand-offishness of the other officers in the Wehrmacht unit to which Krebbs was attached – had even secured a room to themselves.
But when he arrived with the major late that afternoon he found the battalion dispersed. Headquarters was still there but the commanding officer was away at a senior officers’ briefing. Only headquarters company was still in residence, functioning as guard and administrator, the others having been hurriedly deployed many kilometres away in some undefined coastal defence role, allegedly temporary. The second-in-command had gone with them, taking most of the remaining transport. There were rations only for the headquarters company and now, suddenly, many more Dutch prisoners than anticipated. No one had any idea how long they were to be kept, whether it was permissible to disperse them to their homes, whether they were to be set to work, or what. Everyone was appealing to Hauptmann Buff, the harassed adjutant, who had neither the authority to make decisions about such matters nor any guidance from higher formations, who were preoccupied with their own problems. The quartermaster had taken the room that Krebbs and Stefan had found for themselves.
The parade ground was crowded with disarmed Dutch soldiers, sitting, talking, smoking or simply standing in surly groups. They were not men who had been defeated in battle; there had been some fighting – one or two Dutch units had fought well – but most Dutch soldiers had not fought. They had been ordered by their officers to surrender in the face of the overwhelming force that had swept across their country like the North Sea breaking in to their beloved polders. Surrender doubtless bred both relief and resentment. Krebbs told the lorry driver to park at the edge of the parade ground and be ready to return with him and his escorting soldiers within twenty minutes. He told Major van Houten to wait while he asked where, or to whom, to consign him.
The major glanced at his several hundred morose compatriots who, though unarmed, could easily have overpowered their captors. His long face was as lugubrious as ever but something in his eyes suggested the nearest Krebbs had seen to a smile. ‘Don’t bet your pay-packet on getting an answer, Herr Leutnant,’ he said, calling Krebbs by his Wehrmacht equivalent rank.
Krebbs had left the barracks early that day in good spirits, having been told that guarding the Kaiser was an important task which the High Command wished to be performed by Wehrmacht troops under command of an SS officer. It appeared he would combine the advantages of having his own independent daytime command with the comfort of good barrack accommodation at night. Now, however, guarding the Kaiser seemed the last, and least, thing on anyone’s mind. The adjutant’s office was crowded with supplicants and applicants, while engineers squeezed in and out testing telephones and laying new lines. Everyone was talking and at first no one heeded Krebbs’s clicked heels and crisp ‘Heil Hitler!’ salute at the door. He always made a point of that rather than the traditional army salute.
Hauptmann Buff half raised one hand, holding a cigarette, but without getting out of his chair and without interrupting his questioning of an engineer. When he had finished with the man he looked up at Krebbs with weary eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’
Krebbs explained.
‘Feed him to the birds, if you like,’ the adjutant interrupted. ‘You can see what it’s